Tag Archives: Thierry Mugler

Industrial Perfumes The Perfumed Dandy’s Unusual Weekend Break


The Dandy was away at the weekend.

Though this time I found a succour in an unusual setting.

Not the countryside where I normally seek repose, but amongst the great rusting remnants of the original epoch of industrialisation.

To Manchester.

Cradle of the first wave of the factory age, which they tell us may now be coming to an end.

It’s viaducts, locks and piers, great mills and brick warehouses, unwanted freight railways and miles and miles of canals are the Roman ruins of the future scattered about us today.

If only we take the time to look…

Then it got me thinking, something I once read… could there be such a thin as Industrial Perfume?

Purple Under Sides


Estee by Estee Lauder

Shop bought glamour for stolen kisses and unwise fumbles under the freeway flyover.

Oakmoss. Aldehydes. Coriander.

Steely hearts and unheard squeals.

Something Old, Something New


Calandre by Paco Rabanne

Aluminium stiletto heels grind make up powders made of sacred glass into disco floors in warehouse clubs.

No one cares. They dance till dawn.

Hidden Green, Never Seen


Futur by Robert Piguet

Antique idea of l’avenir that never came to pass.

Chartreuse no parts chlorophyll three parts chlorine.

Toxic temptation.

Flash car, fire escape...


Mitsouko by Guerlain

Petroleum and decaying peach. The high life and the backstreet.

Perfectly tuned engine. Runs like a dream. Ride anything but smooth.

Castles In The Air


Eau de Campagne by Sisley

Grab a bit of country air where you can find it.

Canalside, you can be lord of the manor, raise tomato plants and basil bushes.

View your lemon trees from castellated towers. Sundays only.

The Sea, Wholesale


Womanity by Thierry Mugler

Crude humour. Blue joke.

Well told. Widely copied.

In questionable taste.

Games Without Frontiers


Les Jeux sont Faits by Jovoy

Rum for Dad. Gin for Mum. Mother’s ruined already.

Heady, fruity cocktail consumed in a smoke filled bar.

Followed by a curry.

Saturday night on a production line.

Once More Under The Bridge, Dear Friends


Higher by Dior

Merry on perry for the first time.

Electric shell suits fizzing static.

Zips slip easily, tongues entwine.

French kissing in a Northern style.

Printers’ Ink, Queen’s Cream


M/Mink by Byredo

Liquid words with raw honey.

Crude oil of the mind.

Hot metal. Cool fumes.

An eclectic Monday to start a somewhat unusual week *he winks*.

Hope you like the snaps and scents.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy



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“Spineless Movement and a Wild Attack…” Alien by Thierry Mugler The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

Extra terrestrials are unnerving.

They bring out the Clark Kent in even the most super of men.

In this case all such fears are well founded, for this is no beautiful bug-eyed friend of Elliot.

This is an unedifying out of spacer with the social attitudes of a psychopath and the interpersonal skills of a rattlesnake.

He’s a Metal Mickey who wants to shoot you dead and eat your head.

And once inside this Man From Mars you can expect to eat up cars… Mercuries and Subarus, Cadillacs and Lincolns too.

For he has feral ferrous appetites and chromium cravings to feed.

So you’ll go out at night to eat to up bars where people meet.

Dancing slow, cheek to cheek, toe to toe. Man to man.

He blows each away with his jasmine ray.

Dancefloor made carnage, he’s through with bars and eatin’ cars now he’s time only for guitars.

Plastic plectrum at the end of aluminium arm he plays stratocaster, Travis Bean and then some Deans.

He eats the crowd up with his laser beams

Installed on rock star plinth it’s time to introduce yet more synth.

His perspex paws pick out peerless pitch, he plays Moog, Korg, Casio and Yamaha.

And all the floor screams for one note more.

Let them clamber!

He knocks them out for good and proper. 

Here comes his horrific blast of metal amber.

And so with all dead or in thrall the man from Mars is through with cars and beat up bars, he’ll take no prisoners or even guitars.

He’s on his way back to the stars.

Alien by Thierry Mugler is an exercise in peerless artificiality and olfactory aggression.

A plastic jasmine plant in the perspex hand of a seventeen foot high cybernetic son of a bitch.

An unending singular neo-industrial note of almost entirely synthetic strangeness.

You have no option but to offer it grovelling and unending worship, or die like a fly caught in its insecticide swoosh.

Yes, there is an amber of sorts, that some acclaim for its powerful almost electric quality, I find it as convincing as a robotic frog.

Alien isn’t the kind of fragrance you wear, it infects you…

Man or woman? Totally irrelevant.

These days we’re all electric.

But while The Dandy’s human and there’s blood not volts coursing through these veins I’m not ready for this robot’s secret Rapture.

A masterpiece?

If Frankenstein’s monster could be so acclaimed….

With very special thanks to the sublime Blondie.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy


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Easter eggs anyone…? Angel by Thierry Mugler The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

It is the eve of Easter.

The holiday of The Passion, The Resurrection and the chocolate.

It is time to take a trip to maison Mademoiselle Ange, server of all things sweet.

Bubbling vats of caramel and chocolat await behind her pretty as a picture door.

On shelves in giant jars honeycombs are bathed in more honey, next coconut cremes, backcurrant straws with sherbert, pear drops and melon bon bons.

In the scarcely seen kitchen the hard pressed pastry chef whips Chantilly cream into concupiscent curls. The shop girl, whose heart crushes on him, adds vanilla essence with limp love-wearied hands.

Out front, beyond the brass rails, acres of marble and mahogany counter bear tartes of shortcrust and flaky bases and those bottomed with sponge that Anglo Saxons incorrectly call flan.

Everything seems drowned in confectioners’ custard, surmounted with exotic and out of season fruit or crowned with cocoa frills and dusted with icing sugar. Even maron glaces come in crinkled coats and sprinkled with sweet spices.

An indulged mouse, fat on unbaked batters and unwhipped creams, scampers confidently across the floor to a nest beside the hidden oven and its warmth.

The maitresse de maison catches your eye, steps forward, bobs a greeting and smiles a toothless smile, smearing chocolate hands against her straining stained apron as she does.

With a twirl and a curl of her fattened arm she gestures to the piece de resistence a triumph of the chocolatier’s art: an egg of cocoa and caramel three feet tall and two wide.

“Large enough to fit a child inside” she leers as she comes near, her own dark leafy odour now apparent.

The Mademoiselle gestures for you to take a seat.

Will you stay in this palace of sugared pleasures, its atmosphere all thick with fudge flavours and nougat notes?

Can you bear so much sweetness and heavy, heavy air?

Some souls you know will take their places and gorge an hour or three, gathering like-minded souls around them by the dozen.

And others?

Others will flee.

Finding something too cloying in this toffee- fragranced house of fancies to countenance too long.

And you? Which will you be?

Angel is the quintessence, the apogee, the very apotheosis of a certain kind of smell.

It is the Everest of candy store scents. The ultimate of confisserie patisserie perfumes.

That it is expert is beyond doubt, but whether it is art is moot.

Opening with an array of boiled-sweet notes: melon, coconut, mandarin, blackcurrant, red berries and a touch of Turkish-delight rose, there is a moment, a demi moment when all seems as though it could turn out fruity.

Then massive waves of vanilla, honey and mainly chocolate and caramel break, washing away most everything else in their crashing wake.

At this stage it is customary to bow down before the genius of the insertion of a brusque storm defence of patchouli and to dwell on the animalic undertow.

To my mind both are invariably over stated: false pseudo intellectual alibis for fragrance aficionados a little ashamed of their gargantuan and decayed sweet tooths.

This is ultimately an unabashed sugar festival that flirts half heartedly with darkness, but is no more than dark chocolate and salted caramel.

It is commonplace to state this scent is some sort of olfactory miracle.

If true then sadly angels are both everywhere and decidedly average these days.

Are the customers at this store exclusively female?

No not all.

And nor are the patrons of Amen’s coffee shop across the way just male.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy


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